


Memory

by deathishauntedbyhumans



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Fiddleford only shows up for a little while, Fluff, Fluffy Angst, Incest, M/M, Memories, Memory Erasing Gun, Mild Incest, Perpetual Motion Machine, Post-Gravity Falls, Regaining Memories, Sibling Incest, Siblings, The Science Fair, West Coast Tech, flangst, ford thinks too much, stan is doing his best, the ending sucks a little but oh well, two old men on a boat talking about their feelings, what the heck is a summary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 17:37:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10392231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathishauntedbyhumans/pseuds/deathishauntedbyhumans
Summary: Upon remembering the incident with the perpetual motion machine, Stan and Ford realise that the past really didn't have to go the way that it had.Stan had to shove a hand over his mouth to stop a sudden relieved breath from whooshing out of him. He wasn’t some sort of supernatural freak for remembering things! That’s how he’d felt, these last few weeks on the boat, with Ford tiptoeing around him like he was made of glass. That was never how they’d been with each other. Honest to a fault, growing up. That’s how they’d been. And then angry and hurtful, for all the years after the West Coast Tech incident.Fiddleford and Ford were still talking, but Stan felt himself go hot and then cold, all over. West Coast Tech. He’d never remembered that before. Or at least, he hadn’t since Weirdmageddon. West Coast Tech. What had happened with West Coast Tech?!





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is alternately titled Two Old Men on a Boat Talking About Feelings and Memories. (That seemed like a long-ass title, though, so I went with what I've got.) 
> 
> I don't own Gravity Falls. (Duh.) I just really, really wanted a fic that had Stan and Ford talking about the grate. I maaaay or may not buy into the whole Blendin Was Here theory, but regardless of that, I DEFINITELY believe that it would have taken more than a little "Stan Smash" to break the perpetual motion machine.

“I’ve never seen anything like it it,” Ford explains to Fiddleford over the videochat. Fiddleford is chewing absently on the stick of what had previously been holding a corn dog, assumedly blinking at the image of Ford on his own screen. They’re both unaware that Stan is standing just out of sight, pressed against the wall just beyond the door to their little kitchen of the Stan O’War II. “His memories… They should have been permanently erased by the machine. Your Memory Gun has proven itself infallible in every situation except your own, which, as you theorised before we departed, has more to do with the fact that you were able to watch and therefore recover those memories, rather than remember them for yourself in your own time.” Stan isn’t exactly sure of the specifics of what his brother is saying, but he can get the gist, even with his mind as convoluted as it has been since the end of Weirdmageddon. He shouldn’t be  _ remembering _ . He shouldn’t know who he is, shouldn’t know who Wendy or Dipper or Mabel or Soos are. He shouldn’t have vague memories of Mabel’s dumb pig, or of punching a dinosaur in the face to get him back when he’d been stolen from them. He shouldn’t remember his brother.

But he does. 

Ford is still talking. “Stan’s memories should be completely gone. The Memory Gun was destroyed in the Fearamid’s explosion, with his memories still intact inside of it. He--” 

“Actually, most of the people in Gravity Falls have regained the memories the Society of the Blind Eye stole since Weirdmageddon,” Fiddleford interrupted, tossing his stick into the air and making a sound as it hit him in the face. 

Ford, long since used to some of Fiddleford’s… stranger habits, ignored the stick entirely. “How is that possible?” 

“Apparently, the shenanigans caused by Cipher caused everyone to remember all the shenanigans they experienced before-hand,” Fiddleford explained, the sound of his voice fading some as he bent down to try and find his stick again. “The Memory Gun wasn’t as fool-proofed as I originally thought. All it takes is some sort of reminder of the things they’d been forced to forget for them to remember those things again.” 

“Like the scrapbook Mabel showed Stanley,” Ford supplied thoughtfully, and Fiddleford nodded enthusiastically in response. 

Stan had to shove a hand over his mouth to stop a sudden relieved breath from whooshing out of him. He wasn’t some sort of supernatural freak for remembering things! That’s how he’d felt, these last few weeks on the boat, with Ford tiptoeing around him like he was made of glass. That was never how they’d been with each other. Honest to a fault, growing up. That’s how they’d been. And then angry and hurtful, after the West Coast Tech incident. 

Fiddleford and Ford were still talking, but Stan felt himself go hot and then cold, all over. West Coast Tech. He’d never remembered that before. Or at least, he hadn’t since Weirdmageddon. West Coast Tech. What had happened with West Coast Tech?! 

Slowly, Stan backed away from the doorway and towards the room that they’d been sharing, since the only other room below deck was filled to the brim with Ford’s equipment for anomaly-hunting. He shut the door, more loudly than he’d intended, and locked it, only to cross the little room and curl up on the bed. 

West Coast Tech. The words swam in front of him, in front of the eyes he’d shut tightly to try and force himself to remember. They were emblazoned in a bright gold against a blue background, and he felt a surge of anger, followed by a surge of overwhelming guilt, so heady that he physically recoiled from it. Remembering the far-away past did this to him. Remembering the original Stan O’War back at the Shack had done it to him, too. 

Ford. Ford had… Ford had wanted to leave. To go to West Coast Tech. To leave  _ him _ . There had been a project… something that Ford had made, something that showed off just what a genius he was. He’d worked so hard on it, and then… something had happened. Something had  _ happened _ . 

The answer to the question --what had  _ happened _ \-- hit him like lightning, and he let out a muffled groan as the memories assaulted him. He’d hit the table the machine had been resting on; he’d been the one to break the machine. Ford had hated him, he’d been kicked out of his house, out of his  _ state…  _ It had been the beginning of the end, for him. 

“Stanley?” Ford’s voice, steadfast as it always was, drew him from the reverie. He was still lying on the bed, panting, doing his best to force himself to be calm. “Is everything alright?” 

“Everything’s fine, Sixer!” Stan called back, unable to keep the panic out of his voice and hating himself for it. “Just fine!” 

Ford, from his side of the door, sounded rightfully unconvinced. “Let me in, Stan.”  

Stan didn’t move, unable to force his suddenly aching limbs into any position other than the sprawled-out one he’d ended up in. “Go away, Poindexter. I’m fine!” 

There was no answer, but after a minute or so of silence --save for the gentle lapping of waves against the side of the boat, which both twins had long since gotten used to-- the lock clicked and the door opened. Damn Ford! Couldn’t he just give him some time to process what he’d just remembered? 

“Stanley, what--?” Ford began as he stepped into the room, though he cut himself off as he caught sight of his brother flinching away from the sound. “...Stanley?” he asked, more quietly. Stan didn’t have to look up to know that there was a concerned frown on his face. He said nothing in response, but felt the bed dip and a six-fingered hand settle on his forehead. 

Why couldn’t he see? Stan blinked, and then realised that his eyes had been closed. Ford’s face came into blurry view, though the image focused as the familiar feel of his glasses settled properly on his nose. 

“What happened?” Ford asked, and Stan blew out a shaky breath before forcing his mouth open, forcing himself to speak. 

“It’s, uh… It’s not a big deal, bro. I just… remembered some stuff, that’s it. Nothin’ to worry about.” 

Ford’s expression shifted, became more curious. It was the scientist in him, Stan knew, but right about now, he wished that Ford would refrain from asking him any questions. 

Of course, things were never that simple. “What did you remember?” Ford asked, the hand that had been on his forehead moving to rest on the bed beside him. Stan missed the touch as soon as it was gone, and he loathed himself for it. 

He wanted to lie. He wanted so badly to lie, to pretend that everything was fine. After all, they’d defeated a dream demon together! They’d managed to bounce back from Stan having his memory completely erased! Whatever had happened in the past really didn’t matter. And he  _ could _ lie, too, if he wanted to. He’d spent his entire  _ life _ lying, as far as he knew. He’d been tossed from place to place, from state to state, until… until Ford had contacted him, asked for his help. He’d asked for his help, but when Stan had gone to him in tiny little Gravity Falls, Oregon --he hadn’t been banned from Oregon, which had helped him to get there with minimal issue, he remembered that-- Ford had tried, once again, to turn him away. All because he didn’t trust him. He’d said that he couldn’t trust him. The past was catching up to him, now, his breath quickening in time with his pulsating thoughts. He felt sick to his stomach; if he’d lifted his hands, he was sure they’d be shaking. 

“Stanley!” Ford’s voice sounded far away, like he’d ended up on the other side of a street. Stan blinked at him, discovering belatedly that he had closed his eyes again. Right. Ford was there. He was there, and there was… there was the steady pressure of a hand on his chest, a thumb rubbing circles somewhere near his collarbone. Ford was waiting for an answer, but now, he looked concerned again, his eyes wide behind his glasses. “Stanley, please, tell me what’s going on. Let me help you.” 

Unbidden, Stan could feel moisture gathering in his eyes, behind the glasses that Ford must have set on his face. He couldn’t remember caring where they’d gone when he’d all but fallen onto the bed. Ford’s brow creased further, and his hand moved away from Stan’s chest and back to his face, where he nudged the glasses up to wipe at the stupid tear that had betrayed him. He’d said the same thing to Ford. He’d asked Ford to let him help, and… and he’d ended up through the portal.  _ Stan had pushed him _ into the portal. Everything… everything that had gone wrong for Ford had been all his fault. 

And yet, here they were, with Ford watching him anxiously, nothing but fondness and love in his eyes. Stan didn’t deserve it. He didn’t deserve--

He didn’t deserve  _ Ford _ . 

Stan was hyperventilating before he realised that his body was betraying him, and he didn’t react when Ford reached behind him and arranged the pillows in a stack, didn’t react when Ford reached around him and sat him up against the pillows, didn’t react when Ford took hold of his hands and raised them up above his head.  He didn’t react for a few minutes, just tried to shove air back into his lungs and let Ford help him, let Ford touch him, let Ford do whatever he felt the need to do. Ford could have pushed him off the boat. He probably should have. 

Stan might have thanked him if he had. 

But he didn’t. Because Ford --his brother, his childhood best friend, the one person who meant more to him than anything or anyone else in the world-- was too  _ good.  _ He was too gentle, too kind.

Far too kind to deserve such a shithead for a brother. 

Stan’s breathing finally began to slow again, though, and Ford gently guided his hands down before letting go and placing his hands on his face instead. Twelve fingers framed his face, held his cheeks, and he found himself staring his brother directly in the face, slightly blurry gaze locked suddenly to Ford’s own. 

“Stan, I don’t know what you remembered. I can’t read your mind. But I do know that it’s important that you share it, if you can.” Ford looked slightly pained, but Stan couldn’t think of any reason why that would be the case. Ford had done  _ nothing  _ wrong. And Stan had done  _ everything.  _

“I--” Stan attempted to speak, cleared his throat, and tried again, though his voice still came out sounding all sorts of fucked up. “There were a lot of years missing from my head, Sixer. And I didn’t even realise it, but… Christ. I fucked up, bro. I fucked up, bigtime.” 

Ford’s expression was still concerned, but when he spoke, there was a heavy note of confusion laced into his tone. “What are you talking about?” 

“Your science project,” Stan responded, voice cracking on the second word. Ford’s features closed themselves off immediately, and he dropped his hands as though he’d been burned. “Yeah. That’s what I thought. I fucked up so bad, Sixer… I never meant to break the stupid thing. At least, I think I didn’t. I can’t  _ remember _ wanting to break it! I just hit the stupid table because I didn’t want you to leave me. It’s stupid and unhealthy and apparently, everything I’ve done  _ since _ has been unhealthy, which I can’t even  _ remember  _ if that’s true or not, but I couldn’t think about you leaving without wanting to blow chunks. Hell, just thinking about it  _ now  _ makes me wanna blow chunks! You were always the smart one, y’know? And I  _ wasn’t _ ! I wasn’t anything. I was the smart kid’s stupid twin and then you were going to  _ leave _ me and I couldn’t handle it, y’know? Because if you left, I’d be nothing. But I-- I mean, I don’t  _ think _ I actually wanted to stop you from leaving. I just got  _ angry _ ! And I hit the table and I  _ fucked up _ and then Dad kicked me out and you… you didn’t want me there and you had every right because I’m such a  _ fuck-up,  _ Sixer. And then… And then…” Stan shut his eyes again tightly, trying to hold on to everything he’d just remembered. The flood of memories had subsided, and he wanted to catch them before they decided he was better off without them and disappeared again. “And then we didn’t talk, for like,  _ years.  _ Which, yeah, I get. And then you called me and I pushed you… I pushed you into that fuckin’ portal, Sixer! Which is why I spent so long tryin’ to get you back! That makes  _ sense _ !” His eyes flew open again. “ _ Man,  _ I fucked up. I fucked up so bad, I--” 

“Stanley.” Ford’s voice, damn calmer than it should have been in the midst of Stan’s crisis, forced his trap shut. A good thing, too, because he was pretty sure that if he’d rambled out any more, he would have thrown  _ himself _ off the boat. “You might not remember everything, but I do. Which is why--” Ford seemed to steel himself. “--we need to talk about this. You’re not a fuck-up.” 

Stan snorted. “Yeah, right,” he muttered, and started to look away. Immediately, Ford’s hands cupped his cheeks once more. Despite himself, Stan could feel his cheeks burning under the touch. 

“You aren’t. I was… very angry with you, for many years, but I never once thought that you were a fuck-up.” Ford waited until Stan stopped attempting to get away before dropping his hands, scooching over on the bed so that they were properly face-to-face. “Can you tell me what you remember? About the project? I know what I remember, but you mentioned something… I’d like you to tell me what you know, if you can. I won’t be angry,” he added gently. Far more gently than Stan deserved. “I just want you to tell me. Just like when you explained what you remembered about the beginning of the summer.” 

Achingly slowly, Stan nodded, though he averted his eyes from his brother’s as he spoke. “I, uh… I went to the school. It was dark. I saw your machine on a table and I… uh. I hit it.” 

“You hit the machine?” Ford prompted carefully, and Stan flinched. 

“No. I hit… I hit the table. I remember hitting the table. Everything kinda shifted and… and the grate fell off. There was a tiny little grate, and it fell off. So I put it back on and… and I put a sheet over it. So that no one would see if there was anything wrong. And I shoulda told ya, Sixer, I know I shoulda, but--” 

“You put the grate back on?” Ford interrupted, and Stan’s eyes squeezed shut again, remembering. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I did. The nail stabbed me in the thumb when I picked it up, when I put it back in. I… I remember that.” 

When Stan opened his eyes again, the first thing he noticed was that Ford’s face had paled rather visibly, and he looked as though he’d just swallowed something he shouldn’t have. It was Stan’s turn to be concerned, though the guilt was still there, almost overwhelmingly. 

“...Fordsy? You… you okay?” 

“It wasn’t your fault.” Ford’s voice was quiet, almost as though he was talking to himself. Stan’s brow furrowed, mirroring the expression that had been on his twin’s face only moments prior. 

“What do you--?” 

“It wasn’t your fault!” Ford repeated more firmly, turning an intense gaze onto Stan all at once, leaving him feeling pinned to the stupid pillows Ford had propped him up on. “Stanley, when I got to the science fair in the morning and pulled off the sheet to show the representitives from West Coast Tech the machine, it was broken.” 

“I know it was. I just said that I--” Stan began, but was cut off. Again. By a pretty fucking agitated Ford. 

“No! You didn’t! Because the machine was broken, Stanley, but  _ the grate wasn’t in its place _ .” 

It took a moment for this to sink in, and then Stan’s eyes went wide. “Wait, so… No. It has to be my fault, Sixer,” he said weakly, shaking his head and slumping back. “It has to be. I must have… I must have remembered it wrong, that’s all. I probably didn’t put the nail back. Maybe… maybe I took it with me, instead of screwing it in. I had to have--” 

“Think, Stanley. Close your eyes,” Ford commanded, interrupting him again. There was a staring contest for a moment, until Stan gave up and shut his eyes as he’d been told to do. “What do you remember? Not thinking about what I said. What do you  _ remember _ ?” 

When Stan responded, it was hesitant. “I remember… hitting the table. And screwing the grate back on. And covering it up. And then leaving.” He peeked out from half-lidded eyes, squinting at his brother. “I… I don’t think I’m remembering it wrong, Sixer.” 

Ford shook his head. “I didn’t think so,” he said quietly, and before Stan could say another word, he found himself engulfed in a tight embrace, with his face shoved somewhere between Ford’s neck and his shoulder. And while Stan was well-aware that he should have pulled away, he couldn’t bring himself to. Instead, he let himself be held, let Ford grip him tightly, as if he was the only thing keeping him from drowning, as though they were lost in the ocean together without the boat below their feet. 

“I’m so sorry, Stanley,” Ford finally whispered, and Stan… Stan was flabbergasted, really. What in the name of Lazy Susan’s stale pancakes did Ford have to apologise for? 

“Look, Sixer, it’s alright--” Stan began, but Ford shook his head almost violently. 

“No. No, it most certainly is not alright.” He pulled back enough to look at Stan, though he didn’t take his arms away from the embrace he had him in. “The machine had been tampered with. The grate was off, and some of the inner mechanisms had been destroyed beyond repair. Someone actively sabotaged my project. I… I had always assumed it was you, because you left your toffee nuts on the ground near it, and you didn’t deny it when the blame was thrown at you… But Stanley, you didn’t actually do anything wrong. If it had just been you hitting the table… It was a perpetual motion machine. Being jostled wouldn’t have done it harm. You… you were completely innocent, Stan.” Stan was shocked to discover that now, Ford was the one with tears in his eyes. “Do you remember what happened afterwards?” 

Stan swallowed hard. “Dad… kicked me out. Told me I shouldn’t come back until I’d made back the fortune I’d cost by costing you that school. So I left. And I failed at everything I tried to do. Even if I didn’t fuck up your project, I’m still a failure.”

Ford stared at him for a long moment, eyes shining with unshed tears. “Not everything,” he finally stated, and clarified softly when Stan stared up at him in confusion. “You brought me back. You understood my journals, and you reconstructed the portal to bring me back to this dimension. You are  _ not _ a failure. You sacrificed yourself to save Gravity Falls, Stanley. To save the kids, to save  _ me _ ! A failure would have run away, Stanley. A failure would have let us die. You are  _ not _ a failure. Not by a long shot.” 

“I--” Stan began, but found that he couldn’t speak, found that he had tears running down his cheeks. Ford shook his head, sliding a hand from Stan’s back to his cheeks, rubbing the traitorous liquid away with his thumb. They were quiet for a few minutes, both of them breathing heavily, trying to get ahold of themselves. And then Stan tried to huff out a laugh, his lips turning up into a weak smile. 

“What?” Ford asked, and it was Stan’s turn to reach up, to cup Ford’s cheek in the palm of his hand. 

“Look at us, Sixer. Two old men cryin’ our eyes out about the past. When did we let this happen?” he asked, and Ford seemed to laugh despite himself, leaning forward and letting his forehead rest against his brother’s shoulder. The quiet returned for a minute or so, but it was filled with much less tension. 

“I just wish,” Ford finally murmured. “That I’d gone after you. That we’d been able to talk about it before now. We wasted so much time, Stanley… So much time.” 

“We’re together now,” Stan pointed out, and Ford pulled back again, an expression of determination crossing his features. Stan hadn’t seen that look directed at himself since… god, since they’d been teenagers, huddled under the blankets they’d smuggled out to the original Stan O’War, when Ford had finally decided to grow a pair and--

“Are you gonna kiss me, Poindexter?” he asked with a rather sad attempt at his usual cocky smirk. Ford huffed out a breath, the determination shifting to fond annoyance. 

“Well, I  _ was _ , but I have to say, I’m rethinking it no--” 

Ford had always talked too much, and now was no exception. Stan surged forward and pressed his lips to his brother’s, more sure now than he’d been in thirty years that whatever happened, they’d be okay. If a stupid dream demon couldn’t keep them apart, nothing could. 

Not even a memory. 

**Author's Note:**

> My first work in the Gravity Falls fandom is complete!!! I am trash, but that is perfectly alright. 
> 
> Reviews/Kudos are love!!! <3 Thanks for reading!


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